Paradise is a Watery Grave
by oracle-of-tides
Summary: Being a teenage vampire has its advantages, but when your greatest passion in life is swimming (out in the sun, no less) you're pretty much screwed. Crackfic for Free! with some RinHaru but eventually MakoHaru.
1. Normal People

Haru hasn't slept in over two years, but every morning, every time the first flash of dawn filters in through his windows, he pretends he's just woken up from a dream. What the dream was about isn't important—he'll make it up, if anyone asks—what's important is that he can still pretend, for that split second, that everything is normal again, that everything is the way it should be.

Although it isn't, really. It can't be. Haru needs to remind himself to breathe. Haru needs to remind himself he's dead.

That thought, as old as it is now, still pains him; he reaches for his heart without thinking, the material of his thin shirt soon filling his empty hand, his skin pale and lifeless beneath his fingers. There's no sound, no tremble, not even a weak flutter—his chest is just empty, empty like a glass bottle bobbling along on the sea. Still, the ache in the back of his mind, that sense of loss, hurts. His heart had used to beat once, he remembers. Things hadn't always been like this.

Getting up from his bed is no different from lying down on it, but the sounds of the street outside, of the passing cars, of the morning birds, creates the illusion that time has passed. Haru hesitates with his hands on the blinds, staring out into the bright glory of the early dawn and wondering, as he does almost every day, why in the world he puts himself through this. He could keep himself busy, if he wanted; he could break into libraries and read night after night, or steal dvds from a electronics store and catch up on his favourite shows, but instead he lies on his tiny little mattress, in his tiny little room, and waits for this moment. This exact moment. Right here. This one. Right now.

When nothing happens, nothing he couldn't have expected from months and months of previous experience, Haru does what he always does-he shrugs his shoulders, scoffs at his own stupidity, and then shuffles off into the kitchen to make breakfast.

His fridge, dare he admit it, is filled with food he doesn't actually like. The bread, the eggs, the cheese, the fruits, all of it tastes bland to him now, as close to tasteless as tasteless gets without actually lacking the notion of flavour. It, just like most of the other things in his house, is part of the lie; it's a comfort, sometimes, especially when he entertains. At least, that's what he tells himself, and that counts for something, right?

His fridge seems to have an answer for him: _Haru_, the black and white magnets on the door remind him, _normal people ask for the normal things other normal people have. Stop complaining._

The accuracy in that statement terrifies him, and for the next ten minutes all Haru can do is stare at the letters, each and every one, too angry at himself to mess them up but still angry enough that he refuses to do nothing. He finds relief in eventually taking his medication—the bottle, tucked in the back of the freezer, is cold enough to burn his hand, but against his skin the glass is almost warm, almost soothing. The pill, unfortunately, is anything but; the aftertaste is bitter and horrid, like some kind of poison, but the taste at least reminds Haru that he's alive.

Alive in the metaphorical sense, of course.

He passes the next few hours like this, standing here, standing there, making mackerel, throwing the mackerel out. In the end Haru just draws himself a bath, letting the water drip into his tub at a deathly slow rate, counting the ripples every drop causes, every wave. He puts his pinky finger in first, lets the heat climb his arm, until finally he just relents and all but dives into the tub, the water crashing around his body with enough violence to knock him senseless.

Yes, Haru will not be the first to admit his life is a routine. He does the same basic things every day, with little or no variation, and every day he's just as angry at the sameness as he is too exhausted to make a change. But for now, as he sits at the bottom of the tub, as his head rests against the ceramic and the world is hidden behind a beautiful, crystallized lens, Haru remembers why he still does this, why he even bothers pretending nothing about him is...different.

He does it for Rin_._


	2. Living on the Edge

Makoto doesn't know. Even as he knocks, polite as always, on the bathroom door, he has no idea his best friend is dead. It's better that way, and Haru acknowledges that, but for a split second he imagines what would have happened if he hadn't felt the vibration of his friend's footsteps through the water, hadn't pushed himself up to the rim of the tub. Could Makoto have guessed the truth, watching and waiting in vain for bubbles to rise to the surface of the bath water? Could he have understood, realizing for the first time that Haru's eyes are as hollow as a drum and his heart as beatless as a broken cloak?

This is perhaps the most terrible fear Haru has, this idea that one day his friends will discover the truth about what's happened to him. He trusts them not to kill him, or at least not to stab him with a stake or smother him out with garlic (although whether or not that would really work Haru isn't sure), but their fear and his subsequent alienation from them would be one thing he's not sure he could survive. It's not something he'd admit, of course, but he needs his friends now more than ever-they're his foil, his armour, his defense against his loneliness and his pain. So even now, with Makoto being as softly insistent as ever, a small part of Haru just wants him to kick down the door and demand to know that Haru's alright. That's not too much to ask, is it?

But of course that's not what Makoto does. Instead he slides open the door just a sliver, makes sure Haru realizes he's there, and then hurries inside the steaming room. "We're going to be late for class, you know," he says, his voice without any indication that Haru needs to hurry. "Are you finished yet?"

Haru stares up at him with little more expression than a stool, distracted for the moment by the cooling breeze that flushes into the room through the open door. The bath hasn't made him warm, exactly, but warmer than normal, and the breeze returns him to the comfortable place he's more used too. This, needless to say, is lost to Makoto, so he just offers his hand as if Haru's silence had given him some sort of answer. Haru takes it, grips it tightly, and as he emerges from the water he concentrations on Makoto's heartbeat, the faint patter of it against his palm. The rhythmic sound is lulling, but hoping not to draw too much attention to his fascination, Haru lets go of Makoto's hand as soon as he's gotten back to his feet.

"Sorry," he says in half-apology, taking a towel off the nearby rack.

Makoto doesn't comment, but instead asks, "Do you always bathe in your swimsuit?"

Haru meets his eyes without flinching, trying to impose a sense of finality to the conversation without actually needing to respond. Makoto reads the response from the intensity of the glare, and smiles so off-handedly Haru can hardly hide his surprise.

Looking at the ground, he steps out of the tub and walks into the hallway. "I'll get my things," he says over his shoulder. "I'll meet you at the front door."

Makoto takes a moment to reply, but even without seeing his face, Haru knows he's still smiling.

* * *

School is short and fragmented today, with Haru zoning in and out of every class without exception. It's not so much boredom as it is exhaustion, an edge of weariness that follows him wherever he goes. Had he not been a vampire, Haru would have described the weight as depression, a heaviness that settled in his chest and cloaked all his thoughts with darkness. Being what he is, however, told him the truth of the matter; despite having taken a pill only a handful of hours ago, Haru is already suffering from withdrawl.

At lunch he sneaks an extra one into his sandwich, sliding the white tablet between his cheese and lettuce. The bitterness of the drug offsets the soup of other non-tastes his food inspires, and afterwards the relief that washes over him feels like a miracle.

"You look happy Haru-chan," Nagisa notes, stuffing his own face with a fistfull of munchies. "What're you thinking about?"

To realize his composure had slipped, even for a moment, overrides Haru's need to respond in a timely fashion to his friend's question. It's only when Makoto turns to watch him, out the cornor of his eye, that Haru regrets his his silence and quickly says, "swimming."

'Swimming', as vague as that may seem, is his fallback response to nearly everything, from what he felt like doing at any given moment to what he had done at any given point in the past. He's not entirely sure when this became the truth, but 'swimming' had nevertheless become this all-purpose answer for him, something that could always and is always a believable and acceptable response. Plus, Haru really did love swimming, even if he didn't actually swim as much as everyone seemed to think he did.

Thankfully, when class finally ends and Haru walks home with Makoto, the brunette doesn't bring up what happened at lunch. It's not exactly that something_ had _happened, but the fact that he avoided questioning Haru is something worth celebrating. Instead he talks away about this and that and maybe something else; these little anecdotes, usually about his family, filled the awkward space in his and Haru's relationship which would otherwise have been filled with silence. Truthfully, Haru quite enjoyed listening to the sound of Makoto's voice, even if he didn't always pay full attention. It might have been the way Makoto talked, speaking without the need for a listener, or maybe the almost lyrical way he told his stories, like he was actually singing notes instead of pronouncing words. On the other hand, Haru's heightened senses sometimes blurred the world together, taking smells and sounds and feelings and colours and merging them into something chaotic, something beautiful. Not that he could exactly ask anyone about it, though.

When the pair reach the edge of the beach, the road ahead forking off into three different directions, Makoto pauses just long enough to say goodbye before continuing on his way. Haru watches him go for a short while, counting his friend's steps, already hating the fact that he missed the older's reassuring presence. Thus, making a mental note to call him later—he had mentioned something about not feeling well, maybe something he caught from his sister?—Haru makes his way back to his house, finding himself back at the fridge even before realizing that was where his feet were taking him.

Needlessly paranoid but nevertheless concerned, Haru pulls open the frost-laden door and reaches into the far back corner. The glass vial of his pills is still there, but he reminds himself of its presence by taking it into his hand, rolling it between his fingers as the cold of the freezer curls around his face. He fights his need for a few more minutes, telling himself again and again that he really shouldn't take another pill for at least four hours, but inevitably he finds himself powerless to the call of sweet, blissful relief. Prying out the cork, Haru spills the entirety of the vial's contents into his hands, hopeful that there would be at least two or three extra pills so he could take one as a nice boost.

To make a long story short, Haru is horrified to discover there isn't two or three extra pills in the vial, as he had assumed there would be.

There's none at all.


	3. Worse Than Death

Usually, when Haru reaches the end of his prescription, it's not a Thursday—usually, when Haru reaches the end of his prescription, he's prepared for it. Today, despite the odds, proves the anomaly in both cases; today, despite his meticulous planning, his best judgment, his wicked attention to detail, his forethought has failed him.

Ignoring his mistake (what good will that do him now anyway?) Haru turns sharply on his heel and throws open one of his kitchen drawers. His knife of choice is short with a black handle, the edge thick but serrated like shark's teeth. Holding it tightly in his hand, his concentration completely overwhelming all of his senses, he returns to the freezer and begins hacking away at the layer of ice that lined the top, oblivious to the dents that soon ruin his blade and the scratches he leaves on the insulation.

It seems to take forever, but eventually the sheet gives way and a section of the ice crashes out onto the floor. As it hits the ground it shatters even further, the frozen pieces ricocheting everywhere, but luckily Haru's emergency bottle of pills escapes mostly unharmed. He flies to it, more anxious than paranoid, and without flinching just smashes the glass against the door of the fridge, the pills falling neatly into his hand while the broken vial crumbles around his fingers like sand.

He counts them, carefully, while crouching on an awkward square of his floor surrounded by melting ice and disintegrated glass. When he finishes counting them he counts them again, wanting to be sure, needing to be exactly right.

Five days. Haru has five days worth of extra pills.

Collapsing onto his back, Haru lets out a huge sigh of relief. Normally he's better at keeping his cool than this, normally he can handle little problems and not go crazy, but having his sanity threatened by the one and only thing that stood between him and...

And what? Thinking on it now makes Haru realize he doesn't actually have any idea what would happen if he went off his meds. Would he die? Withdrawal was one thing, and that one thing Haru was confident he could learn to live with if he really had to, but was there another side effect he didn't know about? Could there be something worse?

Getting up off the floor does nothing to summon a revelation, so Haru busies himself with cleaning up the mess that litters his kitchen. Turns out that was a smart choice, because not three minutes later someone knocks on his door.

Haru expects a lot of people to come knocking, the Vampire Extermination Squad, religious extremists, maybe even other vampires, but to his relief (and slight disappointment—he could use some excitement in his life sometimes) it's only Makoto, looking just a touch sheepish to be cluttering up the front step.

"Hey Haru," he says, smiling innocently. "You look busy, should I go?"

Haru stares at him with the open expression he's known for, not giving anything away but clearly considering his options. Brandishing the broom aside like he had just pulled the red tape away from an expensive pub, he gestures Makoto into the living room.

His friend hovers there for a while, offering to help Haru sweep but staying put when he shakes his head. Haru is very aware of Makoto's eyes, and in turn he watches the brunette from the reflection off his appliances. Something's up, that much he can tell. But what?

"I'm sorry to just show up like this," Makoto says, finally sitting down. "But, you seemed a little off today. I hope I haven't given you my cold."

Seeing the opening, Haru seizes it. "It'll pass." He shrugs with extra effort, making Makoto frown a little. "How are _you_ feeling? I can make tea."

Despite Makoto's polite refusals, Haru makes them both a cup anyway. The smell of the herbal remedy wafts through his apartment, masking the usual smell of emptiness that seems to have seeped into all the furniture.

They don't talk, exactly, but Haru senses the exchange of a conversation in the way they subtly begin to mimic each other, tilting their heads in time, glancing to the window, reaching for their cups. Makoto's presence is so reassuring Haru almost feels guilty about lying; still, there's nothing else he can do.

Makoto ends up staying until dinner, but when Haru offers to cook something his friend just smiles and admits he really be heading home. In the entryway Makoto's green eyes are skittish, never settling anywhere for long, until finally Haru just saves him the trouble and says what he wants to hear.

"I'm fine," he says. "If anything were wrong, I'd tell you."

At last the tension in his shoulders seemed to ease, the shadow lifting from the contours of his face. His smile is earnest now, genuine, sincere. "Oh, that's good," Makoto says. "Have a good night Haru. Try not to stay up too late."

Haru realizes two seconds too slow that he can't watch Makoto walk away from him again, because something about the distance makes his promise feel true and final.

And it's like he can actually explain that _not_ staying up too late is practically impossible.

* * *

Saturday finds Haru on a train out in the middle of nowhere. He knows where he's going, of course, but the people seated around him could never guess; his clothing said boarding school, his age said the mall, but his expression said nowhere at all. That shifts, slightly, as the train nears his destination, but any indication of excitement or relief is swallowed by the thick sunglasses he slides over his yes. It's bright today, he would explained to anyone who asks, it hurts my eyes.

His ruse, if you could it that, amounted to little when he stepped out of his cable car, because the crowds were so thick he could have been kidnapped and no one would know. Trying not to be too obvious (or too elusive, because honestly, wouldn't people notice if he covered his face with a scarf and poked eye holes out of a newspaper?) he sticks to the main roads, stops at a corner store to buy a popcicle, puts on some headphones. Then, before anyone even acknowledges he's walked past them (let alone done something suspicious), he starts on his way back to the train station.

Waiting on the platform feels a little foolish, despite how many times he's done it, but as he stands with his back against a large steel clock he calms to the sound of the loud, omnious ticking. The longer he listens the more it sounds like a heartbeat.

Eventually Haru finds himself approached by the platforms venders, lovely ladies selling candy and dedicated artists asking to draw sketches. He humours a few of them, even buys an elaborate pocketwatch with the solar system mimicking the hours of the day, until finally stumbling into a conversation with a young toy maker.

"Got a miss, good sir?" He asks, gesturing to a collection of stuffed animals. "Maybe I have her favourite? A bunny? A bear? A horse?"

Haru feigns a sense of interest, nodding along with the man's conversation, but in truth he's distracted by the tattoo of a crescent moon sitting just above the juncture of the man's shoulder and neck.

"Where did you get that done?" He asks the man, interrupting his speech about the luxary of some expensive material. "It doesn't suit you at all."

There's no immediate shift in the man's attitude, but whatever he'd been talking about before suddenly seems unimportant as he motions to a second display. "Oh, you know, someplace somewhere," he says. "Could I maybe convince you to take one of these home, if it's more to your taste?"

The compartment of the peddler's wagon that he slides open reveals an array of books, the sign explaining they were all refurbished copies of popular originals. Instead of regular prices though, the books were outrageous, the smallest one asking nearly three hundred dollars.

Haru picks one, closer to five hundred, pays the man and then abruptly leaves. He takes the first train home and sits with his arms crossed, the book pressed against his chest. He doesn't remember most of the trip, but the second he makes it back through his front door the world comes back into amazingly sharp focus.

Pulling back the cover, Haru carefully pries the tiny bottle of pills out of the clever hole cut in the center of the stacks of the paper. Pulling out the cork reveals about two month's supply of drugs, the capsules glinting wonderfully in the fading evening light. Encouraged by the prospect of staying sane, Haru buries the bottle in the back of the freezer and patiently waits through the next two days, every hour that passes one less that he needed to sit and be concerned he was living on borrowed time.

* * *

The walk home after school on Monday is longer than usual, Makoto stopping twice to pet stray cats. Haru hates the way they curl around his friend's leg, happy and kind, because the moment he gets close they hiss and run off. By the second time Makoto just laughs and says, "I guess they just don't like you today."

There's something about the way he says that, without meaning anything more than exactly what he's said, that calms the agitation building in Haru's chest. He misses those small things, animals not hating him, the sun not trying so hard to destroy him, that sometimes having someone say it so plainly, saying it in a way that implies that hey, one day it won't be like this—it's nice. Hell, it's more than nice.

Haru isn't sure why, but he laughs. It's a little forced, in the beginning, but when he starts he finds the sound difficult to contain, and soon Makoto's laughing too. Maybe he's just remembered something from their past, something funny from a story they've shared, but regardless they laugh together for a good short while, enjoying the way their mirth mixed together like mountains and snow, birds and wind.

That night, alone again in his room, Haru thinks back on that moment and can't seem to stop himself from smiling. It's a feeling he can't explain or fight, but the looseness of the memory makes him happy. Maybe this was what being normal could be like. Maybe this was just fine after all.

* * *

Two a.m. Haru's alarm cries out into the night, shrill but quiet, persistent but meek. Haru flicks on the light and turns off the cloak, slinking back into the kitchen and reaching almost blindly for the freezer. Not that he sleeps, but if he could, he'd know this routine like he knew how to brush his teeth or tie his shoes (and it's be about as exciting too).

Still, bottle in the hand, Haru is hopeful. He decides to take two at once, even, just for the reward, just for the boost. The capsules dance around on his palm, rolling around along the ridges of his skin. Throwing them back and downing them with a glass of water should have given him an instant sense of relief, but instead...

Something's wrong. Something doesn't feel quite right.

Haru chokes on the drugs, his throat suddenly inflamed by a white hot intensity. The tastes fuse together, a mishmash of sweet and sour and bitter and spicy. When the sensation passes Haru feels fine—alarmed, perhaps, distressed—but fine.

Only fine, though. Not better. Not high.

Haru takes another two only to have the same reaction. Then another two. And another two. Eight pills later and Haru still feels 'fine', no rush, no empowerment, just 'fine'.

Finding what remained of his emergency stash, Haru counts the pills again. He only has enough left get him through another two days.

Staring at the new vial in his hand, at the white capsules of...of...of what? What was it? If it wasn't medication, wasn't drugs, then what in the world had he been sold? Had his supplier made a mistake?

Two days. Two days of sanity, maybe four if Haru only took a pill every twelve hours instead of eight. If he was going to fix this, he needed to make it back to Saturday without going crazy.

Four days. He could handle that. Right?


	4. Buried in a Cage

Wrong.

At 11 o'clock Haru is already starting to feel the effects of the drugs wearing off, his energy draining, his self-control starting to fluctuate. The remains of two broken pencils litter his desk, the lead in streaks across the tabletop and the faded yellow wood shredded like hamster bedding. He's started to tremble, just a little, in his hands; his breath, forced as it already is, comes out ragged and heavy, like a dying man struggling through his last words. Glancing at the clock, watching, waiting, staring down the ever so slowly moving hands...

Three hours. Haru has to last another three hours before taking another pill. This time, unlike the last two years up to this moment, that's never been important—like before, like _last week_, Haru just took one whenever he felt like he could use the ecstasy, could just the boost. Now, even just to _consider_ the amount of minutes between him and relief, it's almost too much.

His one solace, in his struggle, is Makoto. Being taller and better built he's basically the perfect shield, keeping eyes away from Haru's slow decline into madness, hiding him away in a small bubble of safety that cloaked as much as comforted, protected as much saved. He's a godsend.

Class ends, suddenly and all at once. Haru finds he can hardly move, stuck in his chair as he watches the rest of his classmates bustle towards the door. They move like glaciers, the colours of the clothing blurring together, their faces bleeding in and out of focus. He can hear his name, somewhere, but the sound becomes a faint ringing, echoing again and again inside his head like a church bell, calling him, calling him home.

"Haru?"

It's only when Makoto touches his shoulder that Haru can find peace. He drops his shoulders, slinking deep into his seat, exhausted from only the small effort it took to raise his head from the desk top.

"Haru?" Makoto asks again. "Are...are you okay?"

His eyes move to Haru's non-existent notes, to the thick black smudges that line his desk. Realizing he has no explanation for his friend, Haru rises and walks past him, cradling his head and complaining of his need for the bathroom.

In one of the stalls, the last one on the right, Haru throws up. The bile burns his tongue, the mucus grey and speckled with what might have been his breakfast. Regardless, holding his chest, Haru feels like he's coughing up his lungs, regurgitating everything left inside him that doesn't work anymore.

After nearly fifteen minutes of pain, Haru breaks. His head is light, his eyes are swimming in a horrid fog, and his entire body throbs. Forcing his hands into his pocket, it takes nearly four tries to grab a pill between his fingers, pressing the capsule to his tongue with about as strength as it would take a weightlifter to lift a thirty-foot tree.

The relief is instantaneous. All of his symptoms clear, leaving Haru on the bathroom floor feeling both foolish and pathetic. Wasn't he stronger than this? Wasn't there some way he could fight?

Finding his friends, on the roof as always, Haru lies about having a stomach bug.

"Bad mackerel?" Nagisa asks, his blond head bobbing up and down like a buoy.

"Something like that," Haru says.

He might be crazy, but for the very first time Haru thinks that maybe, just maybe, Makoto doesn't believe him.

* * *

Walking home, Makoto stays completely silent. Haru doesn't mind the quiet, because he wants nothing more than just to listen to the beat of the ocean against the beach, the sound of Makoto's heart against his ribcage. There's a level of peace here, and Haru knows, when he gets home and takes another pill, there will be nothing but panic in his future. There's no way he'll make it back to Saturday at this rate. No way in hell.

* * *

By Wednesday Haru is a wreck. Every extra hour he manages to go without a pill is an hour sooner he needs to take another. Now they don't last as long, and they're not as good, and his bliss is so short-lived he actually considered just taking whatever was left and hoping for the best. But what then? What was waiting for him on the other side of complete withdrawal?

On his walk home with Makoto, the brunette finally cracks too. "I can't stay quiet forever," he says, trying to be apologetic despite his obvious concern. "Please Haru, maybe you should just stop coming to school until you get better. It kills me to see you this way."

Haru looks into his friend's eyes, hating the dark shadows that line them. He knows Makoto isn't sleeping. He knows something's wrong.

"I'll be fine," Haru replies, trying to smile, to bury his pain. "It'll pass."

Makoto drops his gaze, looking abashed for having pushed the matter, but suddenly he reaches out and takes Haru's head in his hands.

For a split second Haru thought Makoto was going to kiss him. Their faces were so close, less than an arm-span apart, and something about the moment felt charged, almost like desperation.

Maybe Haru was just going crazy. There was no tension, there was no kiss. He's falling apart.

"You're so cold," Makoto says, reaching for Haru's hands now as if oblivious to their closeness. "Aren't you cold Haru?"

Haru can't hear him anymore. There's just darkness, curling and twisting, forming along the sides of his eyes. He begins to shake, his entire body shivering with the energy it took not to simply collapse onto the ground.

"I have to go," Haru forces out between his teeth. "I have to get home. I have to...take medication."

But Makoto won't let him go. "Let me go with you," he says. "I gave you this cold, let me help you get better. Please."

So sweet. His voice, his breath, his smell. Oh god, has Makoto always smelled so fucking fantastic?

Alarm pushes through Haru's consciousness like a charging bull. "No!" he shouts, pulling back abruptly. "I have to go. I have to—" but he's already started running, running with everything he's got.

* * *

Haru doesn't go to school the next day. He just stays curled up on the floor next to the foot of his bed, his body wracked with spasms he can only control by keeping his knees locked to his chest with his hands. He has one pill left, one little capsule, and that's it. Then it's over.

Another convulsion overcomes him and Haru's body jerks from its chains, rocking against his arms like a vicious animal. Haru interlocks his fingers, trying to calm down, but this rush is different than anything he knows how to deal with. This is hot, fevered, like a fire scorching through his blood, begging him to get up, get up, run, run, run.

Haru cries out. What else can he do? His body is outside of his control now, famished for some need he can't identify. Not that he could, but still, Haru feels like he's dying.

He takes it, the last pill. He shoves it against his tongue and swallows it back, gagging on the bitter taste like it's the first time. The last time.

Haru knows he has about an hour. That's it. After that, he'll be powerless to this urge, powerless to fight this monster manically trying to escape from his grasp. He has to do something, quickly, before he loses control completely.

His only thought is his bathroom, with the lock. He finds the key meant for the outside and shoves it into the slot, breaking off the metal and leaving the teeth lodged in the doorknob. Shoving inside the tight space he slams the door, the force so unnecessary it cracks the hinges. Locking the door from the inside should leave him trapped, should keep him here until this...until this passes.

He'll be fine. Just as long as nothing, _nothing_, opens that door.

* * *

There's no concept of time in his bathroom, no clock to mimic a heartbeat, no window to watch the passing of the seasons. All Haru knows is the madness that has seized him, the ropes that have strangled his soul and chained it in the furthest, weakest part of himself. In it's place is a lunatic, hysterical with _need_, craving something like Haru has never craved anything before in his entire life.

When he hears the doorknob jingle, when he hears the doorknob shaking in it's place, Haru think it's his imagination. Worse, after it comes again, he think he's somehow gotten up and is trying the door without actually being aware of it. Then it comes again, and again. Then there's a voice.

"Haru, please open the door. You have to let me in. I can help you."

Fuck.

It's Makoto.

Haru has no voice of his own, no words to shove out of his tongue. He's a slave to this bestial power inside him, and all he can manage is a shift of his body, his bones contorting to get his legs front-first on the floor and his chest arching towards the ceiling. He can't even see anymore-his vision is just dark, revealing only silhouettes of the things around him, of the shadows creeping around inside his head.

"Haru, please. You can't die on me."

Then it comes. Was that horrible sound really Haru laughing?

It's too much for Makoto, because against everything in his nature, against everything Haru could have pleaded with him, he kicks in the door.

And then the vampire is free.

Haru launches at Makoto, slamming them both against the wall. He shouts something, maybe words, maybe only noise, but he can see the fear in his friend's eyes, can see the horror. The smell of Makoto is the most intoxicating thing Haru could have imagined, but it's not cologne, or shampoo, or deodorant that Haru smells. It's something else, something stronger, something better,

When Makoto had forced in the door, his hand had caught on the bathroom counter. There's a gash there now, a bright redness welling against his skin.

Blood. It's blood. Haru wants Makoto's blood.

In his rush of understanding, Haru finds himself back in control of himself for exactly half a heartbeat. It's over so quickly he hardly had time to realize it, but it doesn't matter. Haru reacted. Haru threw himself off of Makoto. He made it into the hallway.

There's another smell now, the smell of the streets, of the wind, of the trees and cars and birds and dirt. Of freedom. Haru runs.

* * *

Blind, in his madness, in his chaos, Haru hunts like a wild animal. There's thunder overhead, and then rain, but the darkness is only a comfort to his crazed mind, only a luxary to the burning that's eating away at his skin. The weather becomes like a typhoon, rain smashing against his body like bullets, making him slump, making him stagger.

But it doesn't matter. Haru sees a shadow, off in the distance. A person. A man. That's good enough.

The figure has no time to scream before Haru corners him, overwhelming him with his blood-lust that was too far gone to ever reign in without relief. Still, when the man struggles in his attempt to get away, his coat collar shifts away from his neck.

He has a tattoo. It's a crescent moon.

The shock gives Haru the ability the speak. "This is your fault," he says, his voice deep and gravely. "Why did you do this to me?"

"I haven't done anything!" The man squeaks, shrinking with horror when he recognizes one of his clients. "Please, I'm not in the business anymore! I don't want anything more to do with you!"

Haru's laugh is laced with lightning, the earth shaking in time with his words. "You don't escape this life," he says, meaning the words to be forward, no threatening. "This is still your fault."

"It isn't!" The man begs, shoving his fists against Haru's chest to no effect. "I don't make the drugs, okay? I just sell them! Find someone else and you'll be fine!"

But there isn't anyone else. This man was the closest supplier to Haru that wasn't on mainland Asia. He knows that; the vampire who turned him told him so.

Haru has no time left for lies. Haru has no time left for civility. This man smells awful, like trash and mud and death, but it doesn't matter. Haru needs him _now._

Fixated on his tattoo, Haru lunges there first. When his teeth his skin, when his teeth hit bone, it's the most incredible rush, like lights filling his entire body, shattering apart like fireworks across his entire consciousness. He can't hear the man screaming, can't hear the thunder or the rain or the storm, all he can hear is the sound of blood rushing down his throat, the sound of his greedy swallows like a starving cannibal.

Haru drinks in everything. The smell, the taste, the feeling, everything. It's a paradise that doesn't exist, a dream that doesn't end. It's a happiness he can't afford. It's a happiness he doesn't deserve.

* * *

Haru leaves the man there when he's finished, leaves him crippled and broken like a rag doll. He wipes off his lips on the back of his arm, empowered with a different kind of fever now, a fever that heightens instead of dilutes, leads instead of pulls. It's a miracle.

* * *

When he gets back to his house, Haru finds Makoto sleeping in his doorway, his head resting gently against the wall. Haru's phone is tucked between his hands, as if Makoto had tried to call him only to realize it'd be left here, tossed aside like trash. Before he can think it through, before he can stop himself, Haru reaches for his friend.

Their lips fall together like clumsy children, lost and misguided. Makoto wakes at the touch but Haru doesn't stop, pushing forward, pushing back. Makoto loses his balance and falls, Haru dropping on top of him, his weight pinning him to the floor.

And then there's nothing.


End file.
